Dancing After Dark
by Xenutia
Summary: As the rest of the crew sleeps, Trance and Harper spend their nights sharing a secret that no-one else can see . . . the people behind the masks.


**Dancing After Dark  
by Xenutia  
**  


**Disclaimer:** I'm using two of Andromeda's main crew in a spirit of fun and not for any profit. And I'm doing my best not to mutilate Tribune's property too much! All of the original premises belong to them, Fireworks Presentations, and Gene Roddenberry—I'm just elaborating.   
**Rating:** Probably PG as it goes on, not any higher than that.  
**Category:** General/Friendship/Who knows? A little bit of everything.  
**Summary:** Night after night two of Andromeda's crew sneak away from the hustle and bustle of the daytime hours and share a secret no-one else can know . . . the people behind the masks.  
**Author's Note:** Right away I'd like to say that although I've seen every episode up until And Your Heart Will Fly Away', I've not much idea of what comes after, so please just assume this fic starts from there, and if it deviates from the show after that (which it probably will if I feel like pushing' them together at any point, let me know what you think) then I apologise in advance! But hopefully the fic will stand on its own okay if that should happen. I don't know how many parts this will be; I just had an idea that I wanted to do an ongoing series that I could add individual scenes to as ideas arose, and draw a little more out of the characters each time. It's just Trance, Harper, and secret meetings at night when everyone else is asleep and no-one will overhear . . .  
  


***** 1 *****  
  


Right away she could sense that she wasn't alone, but that was nothing unusual. Not for her. Never could she entirely detach herself from those senses which tremored at the edges of her sight at every waking moment, those glimpses of possibilities lost and won, of galaxies forming and dying, and she had learnt to live with them. Perhaps if she slept the way the others did—barring Rommie, of course—she would be free of it for those few hours, and dream as any other being might dream—singularly, from A to B, a continuous stream of images that, in the end, would make sense. But she couldn't sleep. Awake, she was in control, and asleep, she could occasionally be free—but in those quivering, dark moments between one world and the next the floodgates that kept those things at bay came down, the flow was tapped and unchecked, and before sleep even came she woke up, breathless.  
  
Right now all she was aware of was the vague sensation of another person in the room—a brush at the back of her mind, and no more. It wasn't enough to tell her who was inside, sitting in the hydroponics bay among her plants and flowers; only her expectation decided that. She had come looking for him, and be it conscious or subconscious, she was sure she had found her way to him.   
  
She crept inside, soundless feet whispering on a deck barely aware of her presence. If it _was _him in there, then she was certain that he would have engaged privacy mode, shutting even his precious Rommie out. She had seen him like this before, and it wasn't pretty. But she knew she could handle him. She had had plenty of practice.  
  
He didn't hear her approach, and his back was set quite forcefully to the door as if in protest—he didn't see her because he chose not to. Anybody else's step would have rang on the deck plates; but she wasn't anybody. She was an enigma. She was Trance Gemini.  
  
He was staring down at something in his hands, his rebellious blond head stooped over it in quiet contemplation. She frowned, involuntarily. Neither quiet' nor contemplation' often applied to Harper. He hadn't changed clothes after the reception dinner, and considering the trouble it had been for she and Beka to coerce him into wearing that black shirt and pants to begin with, she was a little surprised. She had expected that he would have torn them off and slouched back into his old cargos and tie-dyed t-shirts the moment he left the obs deck, a further protest against that stupid reception' and a further kick back at those it actually suited. She had thought as much because those things _hadn't _suited him. Clearly, she had been wrong.  
  
Is anybody sitting here? she asked, softly.  
  
He looked up at her voice, just a jerk of his head that never made it all the way; but she didn't think he would have done the same for many people. Beka, Rommie maybe . . . the women in his life. The ones she knew he felt safe with. Nobody else.  
  
He shrugged, and went back to the item in his hands. She saw now that it was a flower; one of her rarest, and one of her favourites. The _Cuckata Promicus_, or Rogue Obelisk. She sat down slowly beside him before he could change his mind.  
  
You picked Charlotte, she said, regretfully. I was saving her for a special occasion.  
  
That shrug again, and the quick, deft movement of his fingers as he twirled the stalk in his hands. Nothing more.  
  
You didn't have to run out like that, you know, she continued, tucking her hands under her thighs and swinging her feet over the step on which they sat. I never saw Dylan look so—  
  
It was vehement, hot, and spat as if the name poisoned him.  
  
I was going to say embarrassed. She gently butted her shoulder into his, and offered a smile. He looked just like the inside of a callimelon. Beka almost choked on her champagne.  
  
There was no reaction. He didn't look at her, didn't speak . . . just kept on spinning the flower in an endless kaleidoscope of multicoloured petals, its long, tall honeycombed centre twisting like a top. She watched him silently a moment, her legs in perpetual motion from the knee on down; and slowly, hardly enough to notice, he began to do the same. Soon both were kicking their legs over the step like children on a swing, keeping time, their heels drumming into the back. Harper's struck a percussion with his boots—Trance's barely made a sound.  
  
You know me, Trance. He offered a weak smile, watery and pale, and too thin to make the dimples she had always noticed come into his cheeks. I get over stuff. I get over _everything. _I got over Magog larvae, for cryin' out loud. He thumped his heels particularly hard into the step, and with a flinching, half-look at Trance, extended Charlotte to her. I'll get over this.  
  
Wordlessly she took the flower and tucked it into her hair. It stood up like a tiny flag from her twisted net of red dreadlocks. Do you want me to go tell Dylan the fireworks display's been called off? she teased. Or do you still feel like going up in smoke?  
  
Ah, Dylan should get over it too. Look at it this way; at least I livened things up.  
  
Trance chuckled, softly. You did that, all right. Did you see the ambassador's face?  
  
Well, she shouldn't have gotten her feet in the way. And she shouldn't have such _big _feet, either.  
  
Then you wouldn't have trodden on them so many times?  
  
The instant before his face clouded she realised she had pushed too far. It was funny, though, she offered, and nudged his shoulder again. For emphasis, she reached out a finger and poked him in the arm. I'm not totally unhappy about getting away from the reception early.  
  
Is that, uh . . . is that why you volunteered to come play Hunt the Harper? It was a little venomous still, and Trance reminded herself to tread carefully. Not that he was any match for her physically—a definite advantage—but because she didn't like to see him upset.  
  
No, Absolutely not! Seamus Zelazny Harper, I'm ashamed you even thought that of me! You take that back, right now.  
  
All right. All right. Keep your colour on, my Barbed wire Babe. I just, ah, well, to be perfectly honest with ya . . . He deflated like a leaking waterbed. I just . . . I told Dylan this morning that I couldn't dance. I told him so's he wouldn't drag me out on that stupid Zarconian dinner shindig thing. Guess he musta forgot.  
  
Maybe he didn't. You know the ambassador liked you from the moment she set eyes on you. Said you looked like her gardener. Trance regarded him thoughtfully, and bit her scarlet lip to hold back the flush of swarming senses suddenly clamouring at her from far back where she had thought them dormant, at least for today. This was a talk she had never had with him, in—that other place. Something told her she should tread carefully; but she was flying blind. There was no mistake to correct, not here. She would either make one, or avert one.   
  
Fifty-fifty.   
  
You're saying I didn't have a choice?  
  
Well, in a way—yes. I know she's not real happy about her foot right now but she still thinks you're cute. If you'd said no right away before having a try she might've just left, and then where would Dylan be?  
  
She saw his eyelids flutter, the china-blue irises down turned, and the blond eyelashes twitching as he struggled with what she had said. It was as much a part of Harper's rare tempers as his loudmouth or his violent gesturing with both splayed arms—he closed himself off, for just a moment, before reloading his former good mood in place of the bad like he was jacked into a computer. In a moment he would smile—reluctantly at first, but the rest would come—and then leap up with his old impervious energy and suggest they do something fun. She would haggle until he came up with something she would actually be willing to do. Preferably something legal, sober, and that would constitute reasonable viewing for minors. You're right. You're right! I should be flattered the old walrus took a shine to me. I mean, how often is it that anyone visiting this ship takes more notice of me than Dylan? Or Tyr? Or Beka? Heck, anyone but me.  
  
Trance cooed, innocently. Or Satrina. Or, oh, do you remember the two Perseids that helped with the Tesseract machine?  
  
Fifty-fifty. She waited . . . and had she any need to breath or a heart that beat to keep her alive, both would have stopped in agonised expectation in that silence. Not that she necessarily didn't _have _those things . . . just that it wasn't such a catastrophe when things stopped working as they should.   
  
That's pretty sick, Trance, even for you. The defensive hunch to his shoulders and the bite in his voice was back as if it had never been away . . . but still Trance waited. Fifty-fifty. Time would tell if she had spoken out of turn. She wasn't so sure, right at this moment, that she had. You know I can't forget about Hohne. About . . . about what that machine did. I killed him, and you know what? That's not the worst thing. Not by a long shot.  
  
She rolled her lips together patiently, and let her eyes wander. What is the worst thing?  
  
She had barely gotten the words out when Harper stood, suddenly, viciously, turning on his heel and sweeping away from her. He moved so quickly Trance felt the slight breeze of displaced air on her face, and the flower petals fluttered there like a tattered sail on an old mast. But he didn't leave, and she never for a moment thought he would. It wasn't often that she answered a single question he asked . . . and even rarer for him to feel that he could talk in return. He wasn't about to run out on this chance now that it had begun.  
  
He turned to her, his black shirt untucked and flapping as he spun back, one hand extended for emphasis. His gesturing phase. Good—that meant she had his attention. Did you miss me, Trance?  
  
She blinked at him. Fifty-fifty . . . but that number was changing. The odds of ending this discussion with the outcome she wanted were rising ever higher, in tiny leaps and bounds. Don't be silly, Harper. You were only gone for two minutes.  
  
No. That's not what I meant. Did you miss me? You know—in that future, or wherever it was you're from. I mean, I wasn't around, right? I died. I was an all-you-can-eat Magog sandwich bar, ain't that the truth?  
  
Slowly, tucking each foot under and levering herself from the step with one little hand, Trance stood up, and faced him. Harper . . . I missed you about twice as much as you miss me.  
  
He shrugged, but a jagged flicker of some strange and untouched emotion tugged at his face, his top lip moving infinitesimally, and she knew, as she seemed to know everything about him, that his pretended indifference was failing.  
  
As was hers.  
  
Now who's being silly, Trance, you're right here!  
  
She tilted her head, folded her arms, and smiled, mysteriously. It was a tiny smile, and irrelevant—but oh it was fun to bait him, once in a while. He was so easy to draw out, even for a human. So easy to manipulate, to stimulate into conversation, and watch. Am I?  
  
I don't know. You tell me. Are you? Are you _you_, Trance? Or did we get some terrible twin in her place? Call me paranoid but nothing you come out with adds up right.  
  
I _am _me. And I'm not. I missed you twice as much as you miss me, the _old _me, because at least you still _have _me. Don't you? You said it yourself—I'm right here. I didn't have any Harper at all where I came from. I didn't have you, or Dylan, or Tyr, or Rommie—and in the end, I didn't even have Beka, not really. So yes, I missed you, Harper. And yes, I'm still me. But you're going to have to stop being such a goof head and learn to like gold.  
  
As she spoke, Trance gently unfolded her arms, extricated the Rogue Obelisk from her copper braiding—another change, if only skin-deep—and held it out to him. He was breathing hard as he looked at the flower in her hand, and if he had been armed, she was sure, whatever he held would be pointing at her right now. Paranoia ran deep, soul-deep. Colour, on the other hand, was only skin-deep at best. You know . . . why they call this the Rogue, Harper? she asked, and with it her force descended into the sweet, honey-light tone of the purple creature she had once been.  
  
Never really went in much for gardening. If you couldn't eat it, wasn't any reason to grow it.  
  
Trance nodded, and came a tiny step closer. It's horticultural name is _Cuckata Promicus_. It comes from ancient Earth for Cuckoo', a bird that lays its eggs in another's birds nest. The Rogue Obelisk regenerates itself by spreading seeds in the bed of another plant, and as it grows it tears up the plant's roots so that it can send down its own. But nobody calls the Rogue ugly or useless because of the way it came to be alive. The petals cure a number of Perseid diseases and the Than use it as a preservative for perishable goods; so you see, even though it survived by the death of another plant, it wasn't its fault. And it does its best to make up for that by doing good.  
  
Harper eyed her, rakishly. And the point of Gemini's Gardening Guide is . . . what, exactly?  
  
The Rogue dies every year in winter and it seeds its own roots so that it can grow again the next year. But one year's flower isn't any prettier than the last one. It might be different, but it's still the same flower. It just . . . got made new.  
  
Like you, you mean? He was suspicious, she could feel it singing in the air between them and through every fibre of the delicate bloom of the Rogue in her hand.   
  
And like you. Hohne may have died. But think of the good you can do. And maybe I went through a change—but I think gold is just as pretty as purple now that I've gotten used to it.  
  
She crept her eyebrows up, sweetly. Visibly, slowly, the tension left Harper's taut body, and he lowered the gesturing hand, and sighed. One thing didn't change, Trance, he muttered, with a sidelong smirk and a spark in his blue eyes. You still talk in riddles.  
  
Well, at least I explain them nowadays. Now, if you don't want to tread on anymore ambassadors' huge big feet and cause a diplomatic incident, maybe you'll let me teach you how to dance without falling over.  
  
He waggled his eyebrows. Sounds like an offer.  
  
She laughed, and pulled him onto the clear patch of floor at the centre of the hydroponics bay. Harper went willingly.  
  
Rommie, my princess, my hottest work of art, could you do something about giving us some music, doll? And uh . . . go back to privacy mode when that's done.   
  
Rommie, ever the thoughtful AI, did exactly as she was told.  
  
Sad to say, though his dancing did improve in the end, Harper didn't.  
  
*****  
  
Okay, so I didn't have a clue where that was going to go when I started . . . looks like I needed to put my spin on the Trance swap before I felt right moving on with their secrets. I'll probably think of another night and something else for them to discover in a few days. Some will be funny, some angsty, some pure unadulterated fluff—I haven't a clue! This is really just my scratchpad—I'll jot it as it comes. If anyone has any ideas for a night-time incident (keep it clean, please!) please review and leave any suggestions if you'd like. I'll see if I can work them in.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
